


Snapshots from Azkaban

by DarthKrande



Series: Azkaban AU [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Communication, Food, Friendship, Nonverbal Communication, Prison, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-02 16:27:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8674501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthKrande/pseuds/DarthKrande
Summary: Sirius Black was sitting in his cell, listening as Hagrid was taken back to Hogwarts.Then he had an idea, and turned everything upside-down. Here are the first steps.





	1. Chapter 1

For an innocent wizard, Sirius Black was staying in Azkaban for an unbelievably long time.  He wasn’t sure when exactly his guards had stopped considering him a legitimate feeding source. It might have started a little more than a year after his arrival. In addition, his prison conditions had been slowly improving ever since.

Well, if he considered it an improvement that the witch screaming in the cell next to his own had been moved to the far side of the corridor, and her cell was now inhabited by a wizard quietly mumbling about the gold hoard he had lost.

On the other side, the cell between Fenrir Greyback and himself was left empty and locked as a security measure. It was considered dangerous to place a human near a werewolf with just one wall between them. Or maybe the guards simply didn’t want anyone else to terrorize their captives. That was their own special privilege.

Privilege, but not necessarily their goal. Of what he had seen in the past twelve years, Sirius Black could tell most of them preferred to provide their charges a sense of relative security and a meaningless and symbolic privacy. For example, only one specific dementor would roam the prison with his hood dropped back: Sirius could see an enigmatic weathering on the side of his forehead, a little above where the right eye would have been on a living creature.

He was never sure whether dementors counted as “live” or not. Their official classification was “non-being”, a title which referred to ghosts and the like, but he had never heard of anyone turning into a dementor, or any of his guards referring to an event that had happened to them in an earlier stage of existence. They didn’t appear to have a past at all.

Sirius sat back, patiently waiting for his lunch.  It wasn’t usually much of a culinary pleasure; only an event in the monotony of passing hours. Most inmates dreaded it, because dementors tended to come into the cells to deliver food instead of just sliding it in through the gap. Unlike the criminals, Sirius was looking forward to lunchtime. Monotony wasn’t better than the guards. He turned into his dog form and tried to sniff at the icy currents. Then, he waited. Waited until he could pick up the scent of the oily soup and the… was that chicken? Wonderful choice of dishes that only taste good when served steaming hot.

He rose back to human form, and sat down on the bed. He tried to focus on the goal he had recently set for himself: to try and look at the dementors the way he had (previously, wrongly) expected Hagrid to do. He took  a deep breath, and re-centered his focus on the disappointment he’d felt when the half-giant had called the guards foul and hideous.

For certain, Hagrid had a horribly low sense of danger, and an incredibly high affinity to anything that would try to eat him. Once the Marauders had come across the large gamekeeper on a moonlit night, and he had yelled ‘Puppy!’ when he had spotted poor, unsuspecting Moony. 

‘Puppy.’ The three animagi had teased Remus with it for the rest of the school year.

The cheery memory (or at least, the joy out of it) vanished as the guard entered with his lunch. Just as the animagus had expected from the smells, it was bouillon and…. It took him time to recognize the main dish. Chicken tamales. Of course, the entire meal was ice-cold, the exact opposite of what he once had when the Black family had visited a famous Inca magician. And instead of that creep’s wide smiling face, the dementor only had a shadowy hood.

Of course, this time Sirius didn’t have to suspect any nasty ingredients, either.

He steadied himself. He looked at the bulky guard, and instead of quivering in the corner until the dark one had placed the tray on the small table, he gathered all his strength, and (careful not to touch those grayish, slimy-looking hands) took the tray from the creature. “Thank you, I’ll manage from here,” he offered.

The hooded one seemed puzzled, if only for a moment. Sirius realized too late that fighting back in this way might come across as an insult, which he really didn’t mean. But, so far, he wasn’t being forced to recall the night when he had found James and Lily dead because of his own stupidity. In dementor terms, this probably meant that the guard was more amused than angry. Sirius quickly backed away, giving the dementor the space he was obviously accustomed to. He also looked aside, a gesture akin to breaking eye contact. The blind creature would never understand, but in dog terms, it said ‘I didn’t mean to challenge you’.

To his surprise, the dark thing also turned his hooded head away in a similar manner. Sirius waited with the relieved sigh until the cell door was safely locked from the outside again.

Well, he had to reconsider the abilities of both sides before he could go on with that crazy ‘being more like Hagrid than Hagrid himself’ plan. For one, he apparently didn’t yet have the courage to speak to his guard like he had planned. Then, that dementor had reacted to the non-verbal communication which he, in theory, shouldn’t have been able to perceive at all. It was awkward.

He sat down, and held the soup plate between his hands. He was never particularly skilled with wandless charms, although he had twelve years of practice. The soup had a rigid layer of ice under its congealed fat, which barely began to thaw in five minutes. It took almost half an hour to warm the broth to edible level, but then, he had plenty of time. He sternly reminded himself that other wizards here got it worse than him.

An hour later the same bulky guard came back to pick up the empty dishes. In the meantime, he must have been waiting just outside the cell door. While the prisoner was having his lunch, the dementor got his meal as well: any simple joy the captive might have found in his present life.

Couldn’t have been much of a feast, the wizard mused. He found no joy in the realization.

Then, everything was due to be boring until dinner. Except for Skipps’ arrival.

As a high-security prisoner, Sirius Black had always had at least one guard right in front of his door. This role was often given to the bulky one who had brought the meal. The dementor who collected the empty plates from the cell-keepers was always the same for the past eight years, the one with the crooky hands and an affinity for juggling. He would balance plates on their edges in his palm, with the tray atop, and float along the corridor without the slightest shade of taking his existence too seriously.  He was thin, but not skeletal like the most. He moved much faster than the others, and as far as Sirius could tell from his cell, he had rather good reflexes. Like now, he had swept the plates back into a neatly arranged pile when he had spotted Chesire coming.

Chesire was some sort of commander among the prison guards. On the rare occasions when someone visited this accursed place on their own will (usually Ministry officials and a few aurors) it was always Chesire who guided them around, as if he owned the place. Those times, he was careful to put his hood on. With only the prisoners to see him, however, the commander often floated around with his head completely naked. One could see the greenish grey skin, the weathering on his forehead, and the two dark eye-sockets and parchment-thin pale skin covering them. The corners of his open mouth curled into a skull-like wide smile, and as he breathed in, even the lower-ranking dementors seemed to shiver a little.

Skipps left in one direction, perhaps to get the dishes apparated from Azkaban so that they would be sent back again with the dinner. Chesire went the other way, perhaps to check on the preliminary detention area. The bulky guard stayed motionless at his post.

Sirius took one last deep breath, reassuring himself. No turning back, now.

“It must be boring out there,” he started, when Chesire was out of sight. “I guess your orders are to stay by this door, but if they didn’t specify which side you must be on… It would be nice to have some company.”

There, he said it. He just told a full-power dementor that his company was preferable to complete loneliness. Whatever would happen now, it would be a change from the years-long boredom. A small victory.

The dementor turned around, as if in disbelief.

“I want you to come in. I mean it,” Sirius insisted, although much more quietly, and with only a shade of his original determination. He could hear his arteries pulse in his neck as the lock opened. He was sweating ice when it was locked again.

The bulky dementor was about eleven feet high, but appeared even taller because of the extra two feet between him and the floor. His breath was like piercing arctic wind, against which the wizard had no protection. Yet, there was something strange in his aura: a reserved strength. As he moved closer, Sirius sensed the prominent self-control and a measure of innocent curiosity. And there was more, a trace of something the wizard had not witnessed in over a decade: respect. The dementor made it clear that he was only staying in the cell as long as the captive’s invitation stood. Otherwise, he wouldn’t go farther than the other side of the door, of course. He would only give the prisoner the personal space that was rightfully his. Sirius was amazed by the amount of self-control this took from a creature who could easily tear his soul out through his mouth, if he wanted to.

“You don’t treat me as free game,” he quietly pointed out. “That I have noticed long ago. You’re trying not to do me any further harm. You’re kinder to me than my so-called true friends have been. Those who’re alive, anyway.”

The dementor only breathed quietly. Of course, it wasn’t his fault that Sirius had failed so much when picking his friends. The seemingly harmless wimpy boy they had been protecting and teaching, who’d betrayed them all to the Dark Lord; the werewolf they had accompanied from moon to moon instead of abandoning him in disdain, who had never bothered to send as much as an encouraging word.

The dementor backed away, clearly aware of the wizard’s bitter-dark thoughts. He didn’t mean to trigger any of those.

“Not your fault that my life got screwed up. It always was. And all my life, I’ve been trying to make the best of it anyway. Guess what? Under the circumstances, I still think I’ve managed relatively well!”

Of the entire Slytherin family, he was the only one who’d made it to Gryffindor. He’d become an animagus based on knowledge he and James had gathered from their families’ bookshelves. Despite his bigoted goldblood upbringing, he’d got the best out of the muggle world for himself, too. He’d survived the Great Wizarding War. More, he lived to see Hagrid fly away on his motorbike with his baby godson after the defeat the most powerful dark magi of the decade.  And now he was talking about this to a guard in a place where everyone was due to lose their mind in a matter of weeks.

Something reminiscent of warmth ran through his spine. Pride and reassurance. Maybe the dementor was more interested in keeping him talking than sucking those feelings immediately away. If anything, he looked troubled.

Sirius continued, “I alone managed to steer away from the despicable ways of every other Black. And, since by whatever fates I was destined to end up here anyway, I’d rather have this, than be a bloody-handed mass murderer. Don’t you think?”

The creature now seemed relaxed in the cell where he had been invited to. There was no change in his posture. Dementors were blind and thus devoid of body-language, Sirius accepted – but then, hadn’t this one turned away at lunch? He didn’t give off a sound, either. He seemed a comfortable listener, for now. Maybe enjoying the moment of thanks.

“You’re able to look into the essence of a wizard, aren’t you? And in my case, you have done that. Unlike my own kin, you do value my innocence, or else you wouldn’t spare me.” By now, Sirius also felt more reassured. Words were coming fluently as his thoughts and feelings had cleared. The creature still didn’t move, but his presence was not offensive.  Sirius couldn’t tell which was the action and which the reaction. Dementors didn’t like to be found repulsive, perhaps that was why they were fully cloaked all the time. Now, being welcome in here, this bulky one seemed to ease into the unexpected acceptance. It showed in his quiet breathing, and was palpable in his more reassuring aura.

Sirius looked up at the familiar hood, and wondered if his opinion would change if he saw what that dark tissue was hiding. But so far, the cloak covered all of the bulky guard’s personal substance, and it was due to remain so in the foreseeable future. Sirius was sure that the strong one would never attack him.

“ I’m aware it might sound odd, but I’m grateful.”

The moment he said the word, he felt something warm and cozy, connecting him to his listener. It was true gratitude, invisible, undoubtable, and precious. A pleasant wind touched his skin. At first he thought his own gratitude had bounced off the dementor: maybe the  emotion was too densely positive, too intense and impenetrable, like a patronus. For a moment Sirius worried if he had harmed his guard. But soon he realized that quite the opposite had happened: the creature accepted and reciprocated the feeling.

Suddenly, he was aware of his surroundings in a manner he had never been before.  For the lack of a better word, he _remembered_. He found himself familiar with every wall and corridor in the prison area, he could tell who was in which cell and what memories they were re-experiencing. As he got a glimpse of their pasts, their muttered half-words and whispered threats began to make sense.

“I never expected you could…”

The dementor, still standing tall where he had been, was radiating awe, and  Sirius could tell that his respect was not new. Thinking back,  there had been signs of it for years, only, the wizard had been blind to them. That respect was the strange security he had felt in the icy aura, and the reassurance that his innocence truly mattered.

The sensation slowly faded into a memory that would stay with him. He got a peek into the essence of the dementor, just like the creature had been looking into him whenever he wanted. The warm air of gratitude cooled down, and the intense awareness calmed to knowledge.

“Thank you,” Sirius managed.

The dementor was apparently overwhelmed and caught in his own similar shocking surprise. He retreated from the cell and hurried down the corridor. Sirius took one last glimpse at the cell door, and, now unsteady and shivering, he stumbled back to his bed.

Obviously, both of them needed some time to think this through. But he had no doubt this dementor would return to him soon, just as he didn’t doubt he would let the creature into the cell again. But for now, he needed a clear mind. Just like his guard.

Until the bulky one returned, another dementor took his position outside the cell. This one was skeletal, cold like the walls, and just as familiar. Sirius had heard him called Vaqqu when the biennial supervision team had visited. He was in charge of the high-security area: an old and experienced specimen. Sirius wondered if he should give him a try.

This time, he didn’t speak. Magic required words; feelings did not. Besides, talking to his own guard felt natural and somewhat obvious to him. Vaqqu clearly demanded a distance.

And respect.

As he considered the details of his experience with his keeper, Sirius finally concluded that the difference was in the direction of his feelings, not their nature. Few wizards, if any, had ever felt something positive towards a dementor. That had to be the explanation to what had happened.

Toward Vaqqu, he had little reason to be thankful about. Maybe that the senior dementor was managing the worst criminals here, so that the wizard’s few remaining loved ones were safe. But even that impression had been a derivate of his deference towards the ancient one.  He decided to give his unspoken respect a try, and focused.

Vaqqu’s mind opened to him, quiet and dark, like the entrance of a haunted fortress. The dementor was in complete control of what he would share, and what he’d keep hidden. But in their first moments of contact, Vaqqu revealed not only that he was aware of what had happened between the usual keeper and Sirius, but that he approved of it, and he was expecting this connection to grow stronger, now that they knew how it worked.

Meanwhile, just like the previous dementor Sirius had talked to, this one did not move an inch. He was levitating quietly, the scarce light shimmering on his hood’s enigmatic frostwork. His eye-less face was turned towards a pillar to which inmates would be chained during the annual cell-cleaning. His current attitude reminded Sirius of one of his Defense Against Dark Arts teachers, who refused to give out any useful information and let his students learn from none other than their mistakes.  

The assigned guard came back, and as the substitute was about to leave, Sirius caught a fragment of their dialogue. The frosty one welcomed his subordinate in a friendly manner, something the animagus had never before expected from a dementor. The bulky one, however, thought it was self-evident, and even mocked the blinking wizard for thinking otherwise.

The frosty-hooded dementor floated away as the assigned guard had returned to his position. Unlike the usual dread dementors tended to leave in their wake, Sirius was left with a clear message that he would be used, not as a feeding source, but as a figure in a grand game of wizard’s (and dementor’s) chess.

As his guard imported to him, nothing less should be expected from someone who had once had wizards like Owle Bullock under his control.

“That’s rather reassuring,” the animagus said, sarcastically. “It must be easier to you. You have friends here. I don’t.”

The dementor gave him an eyeless stare from under his hood.

“Or maybe I do,” Sirius corrected himself. “Daire, if I caught your name properly?”

The bulky non-being nodded in a deceivingly human-like gesture. This time, it was _his_ gratitude that reached the wizard: surprise that the animagus valued him enough to learn his name.

“You’re the only one in the entire world who doesn’t think of me with disdain. If _your_ name I didn’t remember, I don’t know whose I should. Why don’t you come in?”

Only when the dementor entered, did Sirius notice that he was holding something in one slimy, greyish hand. It was a half-pint white mug, with the logo of the International Confederation of Wizards. A few ink-blue lines were scattered around the white glaze. As Sirius took it from Daire, the random patterns reorganized themselves into rows of legible text.

“Experimental for use of heat and resistance testing under conditions extreme,”  the wizard attempted. “Couldn’t they cast a better translation spell on it?” He read on. “Research property of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, 1758. Let me guess. The French wanted this tested under extreme circumstances, best known as: you. And now you’re curious if it still works?”

In reply, the dementor placed an ice-covered jug of milk on the table, then detached the mug’s handle at the upper connection point, and bent it upwards. The handle kept looking like solid glazed porcelain, but it opened into a funnel. Sirius poured some milk through it. What seeped into the mug from the lower side of the handle, however, was not cold, nor white: it was pleasantly steaming, and cocoa-scented. Amazed, the wizard wrapped his fingers around the mug, enjoying the heat.

He took a disbelieving sip. The liquid was creamy, tasty,  reassuring. Each gulp warmed his lips, his tongue, his throat, his soul.

“Hm. I’m not sure I’ve ever drank hot chocolate this good before!”

Or maybe he just couldn’t remember, because he was currently among dementors, who tended to make the best memories fade. But at the moment, he cared little about that. He refilled the mug (there was still plenty of milk available)  and smiled over the foamy, creamy drink.

“Cheers, Daire.”

Then he downed its contents in one go.


	2. Chapter 2

Good company or not, Azkaban was still a horribly boring place. Sirius had spent an entire week talking with Daire, but there was little to be said when his company was already intimately familiar with most of the good things on his mind. As of bad memories: Sirius wanted to steer away from those as much as he could in that dreary place.

But there was one inexhaustible topic: the ancestors of the Black - Lestrange - Crabbe family, many of whom had hunted muggles for sport. Their hobby, unsurprisingly, resulted in a considerable number of them ending up in Azkaban. Daire sharing first-hand memories of the long deceased cheered Sirius (third in the family to bear the name) beyond what seemed socially acceptable. After some debate with the security personnel of the lower levels, Daire even led Sirius to their graves.

The wizard ran a thoughtful hand over the simple grey tombstones. For the first time in over a decade, he realized it wasn’t a wonder that he ended up here. Some family traditions, apparently, could not be escaped by going to Gryffindor.

Daire guided him around, explaining that the remains were properly catalogued for the Ministry. At the time of death, only the date and the cell number were fixed on a temporary steel cross, which marked the place until the final memorial arrived. Very rarely, as the dementor explained, the family would pay the Ministry to provide a more personal tombstone. The last time Daire recalled this happening had been almost fifty years before, when somebody sent a new memento for a wizard who died decades before. Daire couldn’t see it, but to Sirius, the oddly pristine white block of marble stood out like a beacon. As he touched it, he could tell it was magically protected against dust or erosion.

“Most likely, it was his son who had arranged for it,” he said. He didn’t need to tell Daire that the aforementioned son was now the headmaster of the wizarding school of Britain.

Sirius looked up at the sky when he noticed the snow falling. It was early summer, but because of the thousands of dementors on the island, snow could happen all around the year.

He recalled how much he had hated summertime. He had had to return to the family for the holidays, to be cut off from his friends, surrounded by Slytherins. Azkaban’s cemetery reminded of home.

Too bad the dementors couldn’t take Bike Magazine or RiDE for him. All offices and outposts of the Ministry of Magic were receiving the Daily Prophet, of which Azkaban was no exception, but that paper had always been Ministry propaganda. It had demonstrated how low Sirius had sank when he eventually had stooped to reading it.

As they were wandering between the closely-placed graves, the wizard noticed a familiar dark figure in the increasing snowfall. He was sitting on the ground next to an austere cross, lost in his thoughts, rather than grieving. The snowflakes fell on his hood and shoulders, then stayed there, frozen to the already spectacular frostwork. Apart from him, Daire was the only dementor at the burial ground, and Sirius Black the only one who could be considered alive.

Daire breathed something like an apology for being late, but Vaqqu reassured him that they had plenty of time.

Then Daire left, floating away with the wind towards a hatch in the dark walls. Sirius was left alone with one of the most experienced dementors.

Vaqqu didn’t tarry, and breathed a thought to the wizard. It was one of vengeance, hurt pride, and a promise of a rewarding cooperation. Sirius had, until this moment, believed that he wouldn’t be repulsed by a dementor as easily as other wizards, and now Vaqqu proved him wrong. But, like the last time, Sirius steadied himself. If Daire had agreed to arrange a private meeting, away from half-mad witches and his looming, thought-eating colleagues, he must have had a good reason.

Vaqqu elaborated. He recalled the unexpected bond between the wizard and Daire, then coldly added the undeniable statement that an innocent stayed in Azkaban while several dark magi went free and unpunished. Vaqqu’s desire for the thrill of the hunt was as strong as his stubborn sense for justice. Besides, the slowly decreasing number of inmates in the barren prison did not meet the needs of its dementor population. Sirius found it touching that the creature was willing to go this far for his subordinates. He could have set an excellent example for the Ministry of Magic.

“Do you have any ideas about what we can do, when both of us are literally in the center of, forgive me, this accursed hellhole?”

The high-ranking dementor nodded. Because he was sitting (a pose Sirius had never seen non-beings assume) his head was almost at the same level as the human’s. Then he sent (conjured?) a thought into the wizard’s mind, one he should have never allowed to appear: going back to the British mainland. He also added, quickly, that the leave would be no more than a few hours. However, if Sirius cooperated, Vaqqu would not object to sneaking out once in a while. The convicted animagus wouldn’t ever have a place in the wizarding society again, the dementor pointed out, but he could continue what the Order of the Phoenix had attempted, and had done a considerably good half-job at.

Sirius lost the ground from under his feet. The senior dementor, a guard of Azkaban ever since the Ministry had taken it over, was suggesting that he left. Semi-regularly. Because some cells were still awaiting the deatheaters.

He couldn’t tell if Vaqqu was grinning under the frost-patterned hood, but from the thoughts and feelings he shared, it was plain that he found his own plan amusing. He repeated his conditions: as long as Sirius Black, third wizard by that name, would cooperate with his keepers and not attempt to run away while on a mission, he would be welcome to hunt for wizards - above the law, but not above justice. Vaqqu made it clear that there was foul play on both sides in the wizards’ war, and that he was ready to make his move. And he counted on the animagus, not that Sirius’s decision hadn’t been taken for granted from the start.

That incredibly strong thirst for vengeance must have rooted in a personal insult, so Sirius demanded to know exactly what he was signing up for. If it hadn’t been for the company of over two thousand dementors in the vicinity, he would have been jumping with joy. To the calculating and admittedly dangerous Vaqqu sitting in front of him, he could only point out that his new-found boss was withholding crucial information about the proposed first mission.

“Our target will be Bartemius Crouch Senior,” the dementor said after some rumination. His voice was clear, deceivingly human-like, and he had a distinct Welsh accent. “Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement until 1982. He had made a show of condemning his son, then smuggled him out of here within a year. We were powerless against him, and I happen to know what he did to an innocent witch who accidentally discovered his dirty secret. That’s about my part of the ordeal. You know yours. He was the one who sent you here without a trial.”

There was no one to see it, but the wizard’s face turned red with anger. Vaqqu departed, leaving him alone with his darkest thoughts, sitting on the grave that wasn’t different from the others in appearance. Only, it didn’t have the matching wizard’s bones under it.

Sirius looked up into the continuing snowfall as Vaqqu gracefully floated away, and his frost-covered shape finally disappeared in the afternoon  fog.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to read how well that turned out, please see the second chapter of 'Eyes and Nose of Azkaban'. I'd be pleased to hear your opinion. Thanks, and stay tuned!


	3. Chapter 3

It was a sunny morning: the last day of June. One month since Hagrid had failed at seeing the value of a person beneath the horrid appearance and bizarre feeding habits of the dementors, and Sirius had taken that challenge. One week since Vaqqu asked for the animagus’ assistance in retrieving the convicted deatheater Bartemius Crouch Junior. Six and a half hours since Daire had kissed the soul out of the escapee before he could have cursed Sirius to death. Also six and a half hours since Skipps had performed his first-ever kiss, ending the existence of Bartemius Crouch Senior, who had been using the Imperius curse on his own son for over a decade. Six hours since Vaqqu had led the group back to Azkaban behind Chesire’s back, and Daire had locked the door behind the exhausted Sirius. Forty minutes since Skipps had poked him awake with the rolled-up Daily Prophet, which featured the Crouch family’s fate on the editorial. Fifteen minutes since the dark-cloaked crowd had dispersed through Azkaban’s corridors.

For this past quarter hour, Sirius was staring at the clammy corner. He wanted to catch some more sleep, but he couldn’t. Even though Vaqqu was out in the corridor, his pride and satisfied sense of justice had filled the cell. It wouldn’t have been a bad sensation, but it reminded Sirius of the outside world he had not been part of for twelve years. The animagus was positively shaken.

For the entire decade, he’d ignored the world, so that its loss had hurt less. Now Daire, Vaqqu and Skipps had led him back to what he had lost. Tonight they had settled the scores with the wizard who had sentenced him without a trial. Skipps had gained invaluable knowledge, essential for further hunting. He must be sharing the high-ranking Crouch’s memories with the others, and these memories would be passed on through the ranks, and they would be echoed as long as Azkaban’s walls stood.

And Daire... Daire had saved his life. That’s what had happened.

Sirius rolled under his blanket, then turned into his dog form, curled up, and buried his nose under his shaggy tail. He growled quietly, as if reprimanding himself. He’d stood dumb when Crouch Junior had broken free from his father’s curse, too slow to dodge the deadly spell.

The large dog whined. The world was still magnificent and dangerous beyond the walls and the vast ocean. He’d never fit in it again.

He stood up on all four and circled before collapsing on his bed again. He was distressed, now that he had sniffed a scent of freedom. Vaqqu had been right when he had pointed out Sirius’d never again have a place in the wizarding world. He wished he could ask Daire, his only ‘living’ support for years, but his primary guard was enjoying a quiet rest in the southern wing of the prison, on the dementors-only ground floor. Wizards couldn’t even approach that part of the building, not to mention several locked doors in his way.

Loneliness made Sirius shiver. Before the explosion Pettigrew had set up, he had always had someone to turn to. Friends. First of all, the Marauders. Then Hagrid, who had so often covered up for them after mischief. The animagus wondered if the gamekeeper was still using the motorbike he had handed to him – the last gift he had ever had the opportunity to give. Too bad the dementors of the preliminary detention ward so rarely visited the life sentence corridors. They had to know about that vehicle.

He couldn’t help but yowl. For as much as he considered his guards to be his friends, and Daire’s move to save him notwithstanding, he did not belong here.

But he didn’t belong anywhere else, either.

What was left of the Order of the Phoenix? Did Dumbledore let it fall apart, was that why its members turned their backs at him? Or maybe the Order was still active, but all members accepted his to life-long imprisonment without investigation. That possibility sounded even worse.

Did Sirius have a family, a blood-bound group where he would belong? Perhaps a relative who was not a Slytherin? The only one he could think of was Marius Black, the squib. If his magical abilities had skipped a few generations, maybe there was a mudblood wizard now, who didn’t even know he was a Black descendant. If so, he was not a Slytherin, for obvious reasons. That house simply didn’t accept muggle-borns.

He wished he could go track that slim hope.

That brief visit to the mainland had devastated him, much like his unjust sentence had had. Would he be able to adapt again? It had taken him twelve years, and a half-giant’s unintended help, but he had managed. He had let go of the overly obvious first impression of the dementors, and succeeded in seeing the valuable person under those dark cloaks.

That, as he remembered, must have been what Dumbledore was willing to do for children like Remus Lupin.

Remus...

Moony was the sole remaining Marauder after Pettigrew’s betrayal. Too bad they didn’t catch time to reconcile after the werewolf had been accused with being the traitor of the inner circle. They had even regretted telling him of Sirius being the secretkeeper for the Fidelius Charm Dumbledore had cast on the Potters’ house in Godric’s Hollow. Instead, Sirius had passed the secret to Peter as a precaution. Only, Wormtail had not protected Prongs and his family, but betrayed them...

If Sirius had been any wiser, he would have known that Remus’s allegiance was as solid as his own. They really should have known better than follow the prejudice against werewolves. But Sirius was now sure: if there was just one person, one living person who’d believe in his innocence, it had to be Moony.

Padfoot returned to his human self, and rested his forehead against the moist wall. If only he could explain himself to the werewolf! If only he could apologize...

He lifted his head, listening to the familiar breathing of the dementors. It was one of the most feared noises in the wizarding world, but for Sirius, it had a completely different meaning. He had looked past the ingrained preconceptions, and found friends under the dark robes. Why couldn’t he do the same for a wizard who was already a friend? How had the hunt for Wormtail been so urgent he’d never had time for repentance? How could he claim there was still more to him than being a tool of Vaqqu’s selfish thirst for vengeance, when he had not done what should have been the first thing to do? Had he, Sirius Black the Third, not betrayed Remus?

He sobered to the creaking sound of  the opening cell door. He looked at the intruder with tearful eyes. Right now, he didn’t care who it was or what he wanted. Skipps had no reason to come in yet, and Daire would have never entered without an invitation.

Indeed, it was neither. Vaqqu was standing in the center of the tiny cell. The morning light glimmered brightly on the frostwork of his hood.

“You might need these,” he said in that clear Welsh accent. “Chesire receives the Prophet via owl post. We’re so far from the mainland, the birds need hours of rest before we can return them. Ink. Parchment. Quill. Don’t write anything that the Ministry could use against us.”

Sirius Black blinked.

Vaqqu, uninterested in the sudden shock of gratitude, locked the cell from the outside, and waited patiently for the inmate to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to read more about that letter, please see the 'Owl Post of Azkaban'. I’d be pleased to hear your opinion. Thanks, and stay tuned!


	4. Chapter 4

The cell door creaked open, and a stranger appeared with Sirius’s breakfast. The large dog looked up, and growled at  the intruder. When the unknown dementor retreated, the prisoner put his head back on the icy-cold, rattling black mass he was curled up against. Occasionally he would sniff at the black textile, or gently pull a weak, grayish arm back on the bed with his fangs, but he wouldn’t leave his place.

An hour later, Skipps showed up. He was hard to recognize now: solemn and upright, floating above the floor instead of doing pirouettes and performing juggling stunts. When he lifted up the plate and noticed its weight, he even stayed motionless for a while, as if thinking.

Sirius couldn’t care less. He didn’t even notice when the deadly but playful creature had left the cell.

A few minutes later Vaqqu entered. His breathing was deliberately quiet, almost like a breeze.

“You must eat,” he began. “And remember: it’s not your fault.”

Sirius turned back to his regular wizard form, with shaggy black hair instead of shaggy black fur, and worn-down striped uniform on his thin body. He remained curled-up, with his back against the hoarsely breathing dark pile. “Wasn’t it my idea to take the Honeydukes passage?” he asked bitterly. “Wasn’t it my idea to go and chase Peter during classes?”

“Yours... And quite understandable,” Vaqqu pointed out. “You want to prove yourself to your kind. Now more than ever, because your godson’s in danger. We went along, to a forbidden area, and without trained aurors backing us. We accepted the risk.” Vaqqu paused for a moment when the rattling pile of dark cloak behind Sirius gave a miserable moan. The wizard immediately turned back, and put a soothing hand on a skeletal, shivering shoulder. Barely visible grey fog was seeping from the folds of the thick fabric. The wound didn’t seem to had healed any in the past days, and Sirius remembered all too well how his friend had been stabbed with the unicorn-horn .

Vaqqu pushed the plate into the wizard’s hand. When Sirius put his breakfast aside, the dementor assured that he was willing to push it down the wizard’s throat bite by bite, should he refuse to eat it.

Sirius was wiser than to pick a fight with the senior non-being. He needed all his strength if he wanted to keep his injured guard from fading away. While chewing the cold slices, he kept checking on the weak, pale creature wrapped in the familiar black cloak. The wizard sat as close as he could, in an attempt to close the wound with his own body.

Vaqqu continued. “If you used that potion to capture Peter Pettigrew, you could have cleared yourself. Instead, you chose to help Daire. That’s a sacrifice no other wizard would have made.”

Sirius nodded, although Vaqqu couldn’t see it. He had made his point in the Room of Requirement and didn’t regret anything. The price was high, he knew it, but abandoning Daire hadn’t been an option. But right now, he would have greatly preferred tearing Peter to pieces instead of the icy cold breakfast sent by the Ministry. Or maybe he shouldn’t be selfish, not when dementors could perform the kiss on the damned rat.

“How potent is a horcrux?” he suddenly asked. “Of what Professor Dumbledore told me, it was a soul fragment from a murderer. Exactly what you feed on. Why isn’t Daire getting better?”

 “We’re too many,” Vaqqu whispered. “There’s nothing you can do about that. Azkaban is so overcrowded, we’re breathing from each other’s mouth here.”

Sirius’s wax-white, bony hand ran on the ice-cold black robe, an offer of hope and unconditional trust. He could feel a shiver underneath. “Daire, you saved my life. Why do you refuse to let me do the same?”

The only reply he could pick up from his keeper was a sense of shame. The stabbed dementor couldn’t even return the positive feelings he’d been given.

“I don’t expect you to return anything,” Sirius muttered to him. “You’ve already given so much. And I must say I don’t regret letting Pettigrew run, because there certainly will be another time. But I couldn’t bear losing yet another great friend to him.”

The greyish fog continued to seep from the folds of the plain black robe.

Sirius looked back at Vaqqu, silently begging for him to share a wise idea. Wasn’t he a seasoned creature, many centuries old, with knowledge on par with an entire library?

“You can’t do more. That wound would need solitude, not two thousand of us crammed together.”

“Then can’t you send him back to the mainland?”

“The Ministry would never allow.” Vaqqu’s confusingly human-like voice hinted at horrors a group of aurors would do to a weak and lonely dementor they’d find in their territory.

“But they wouldn’t search my house for him, would they?” Sirius said, the light of determination shining in his eyes. “It’s empty, it’s quiet. Nobody has used it for over a decade.”

For the first time that day, Daire moved. His laboured breathing grew louder as his distressed figure rose from the torn, old blanket. The aura Sirius would recognize for the strength and respect in it was now filled with disbelief.

“Are you sure?” Vaqqu asked in his neat Welsh accent. “You’re willing to share your family’s home with a dementor?” He added, without words, that of course he was aware of the mutual hatred between Sirius and the deceased Blacks, but the offer was still implausible.

“Would it help? Then yes.” There was no doubt in the wizard’s tone. “And who knows? If the Ministry suddenly realises I’m innocent, I’d have someone to greet me at home.” His words were bitter, but he couldn’t think of anything else encouraging to say.

Sirius Black was all too familiar with the feeling of a cold and deadly presence in his own mind, and Vaqqu was looking specifically for one of his worst memories: returning home to 12, Grimmauld place for an entire summer break after his first year in Gryffindor. As a child whose eyes had just opened to a world far wider and wilder than the company of pureblood witches and wizards, the old Black house was hostile and cramming. And no matter how he’d locked his room’s door, the house-elf always got in easily. His happiest moment in the entire summer had been when he’d realized he could widen the gap in the back wall, and fly out to the muggle London on a broom.

Vaqqu confiscated that memory for further use, then helped Daire up. It looked as if the frosty-hooded dementor was dragging an exceptionally heavy, empty cloak. Sirius feared this was the last time he’d see his assigned keeper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. If you want to read how and where Daire got almost murdered by Pettigrew, please see the fourth chapter of ‘Eyes and Nose of Azkaban’. I’d be pleased to hear your opinion. Thanks, and stay tuned!


	5. Chapter 5

Without Daire, Sirius felt almost as cold and alone as when he’d been first delivered to his horrible Azkaban cell. Skipps only showed up for a few minutes each day, and Chesire frequented the area far too often. Sirius grew apathetic: just a piece in the big game of wizard’s chess, somewhere at the side of the board. Only Vaqqu visited once in a while, and shared centuries-old stories in his decently human-like voice to kill time. It wasn’t hard to guess why: Daire must have made him promise that he’d keep Sirius company in his absence. The fact that Daire cared so much was the only thing that could keep the wizard’s soul warm.

He grit his teeth, and, like the old times, he retreated into his dog form, which was slightly less susceptible to dementors’ closeness, although just as vulnerable to depression. He was afraid that loneliness would wreck him. At least, he consoled himself, there was good hope that Daire was healing, and would return to duty someday.

As it appeared, positive feelings related to any dementor were strict taboo that no other would touch.

It didn’t grant Sirius immunity otherwise, however.

One morning, he woke to someone thumping him on the head with a rolled-up newspaper. He opened his eyes only to see the Daily Prophet’s headline as it hit him on the left cheek again. He looked up; he was facing the most horrifying death-grin on an eyeless grey head, with an enigmatic weathering on the right side of the forehead.

“You blackhole of all good manners, Chesire!” Sirius growled. He remembered how his prudish parents had hated it when he used words from muggle science. It didn’t seem to have the same effect on the commander of the wizard prison.

“Just read,” he heard the familiar Welsh accent from behind the naked-head.

“Good morning to you too, Captain Vaqqu,” Sirius snarled. He’d taken to calling the frosty dementor by his title in his superior’s presence. It was a display of respect that Vaqqu deserved and Chesire did not.

He had, however, previously hoped that Vaqqu would keep the other  away from him. He had apparently forgotten that Chesire outranked the captain. Grudgily, he took the Daily Prophet from the commander’s rotting-looking, grey hands.

The front page had a photograph of a hippogriff chasing Peter Pettigrew on Hogsmeade’s main street. Despite the photo being shaky and the man running fast in the picture, Wormtail’s left hand was visible, from which one finger was missing.

‘SUPPOSED MURDER VICTIM SPOTTED ALIVE AFTER TWELVE YEARS’ the title announced. The animagus avidly read on. Tears filled his eyes, then rained on the already damp paper. He could not laugh, he could not jump in the air, not with Chesire taking all his joy out of the moment. But he read the article again, and again.

Peter Pettigrew, posthumusly awarded the Order of Merlin, third class, had been seen in Britain’s only all-wizarding village the previous day. A hippogriff that had attacked a Hogwarts student a week before, and had been tethered since, had chased Pettigrew all  the way from the school’s paddock, presumably after the wizard had tried to steal and mount him. Who was he running from, and where he had been hiding for over a decade, was still a mystery, but one thing was certain: he had never been killed by Sirius Black in November of 1981, as it had been previously supposed. There was also a side-article about ‘The Black-case’, quite accurate apart from cautiously avoiding the mention of him being condemned to Azkaban without a trial.

Chesire, having sated his hunger with Black’s happiness over finally being recognized innocent, on the editorial of the Daily Prophet no less, eventually hovered out from the cell. Vaqqu stayed just a moment longer, as he was more tactful than the commander.

“Captain?” Sirius looked up, smearing his tears on his face. “If I get out, it’ll be your victory. I’ll never forget.”

The dementor turned back to him. That single gesture from a creature that had no body language spoke more clearly than an entire year’s worth of newspapers. “Just get me that rat, and we’ll be even,” he replied.

Sirius was left alone with the Prophet. He read the article about fifty times, thirstily drinking in the message. Dozens of witches and wizards had seen Pettigrew, some had recognized him on the spot (he hadn’t changed much, although he had never been as memorable as James), and an aged auror even noticed the missing finger – the only part of the ‘exploded’ man that had ever been found. Sirius sincerely hoped the rest of the wizard would also be retrieved. He’d fit Vaqqu’s collection.

Skipps air-danced into the cell with his breakfast. With a sharp pang, Sirius realized he would miss this cheerful creep. Unlike the two thousand others who would only take joy they’d find around, Skipps had learned to create an atmosphere for it. What he had collected from the inmates around him had been his own work’s well-earned fruit. And he was aware and proud of it.

He reminded Sirius of his own younger self.

“Good to see you, Skipps.”

The dementor did a full loop in the air, while the tray in his crooked hand didn’t even waver. “Thanks!”

Sirius Black stared, jaw dropped. The dementor was speaking in the voice of Bartemius Crouch Senior.

“What?” Skipps teased him. “You thought dementors simply hatched with the ability to speak?”

“I...” Sirius stuttered, “I didn’t know... The aurors will hunt you down if they hear you,” he whispered.

“I might be young, but I’m not stupid. I only let you in on my secret because it’s you.”

That was trust placed in him, Sirius realized. Last time anyone had done that, the results were catastrophic.

Skipps bonked him in the chest before he could have spiralled deeper into the memories. “You aren’t stupid, either,” he pointed out.

It was extremely odd to hear ‘Bartemius Crouch’ talk like that. Sirius wasn’t too shy to point that out.

“Tell me about it,” Skipps chuckled. “Vaqqu told me in advance it’s hard to bring an entire wizard down, especially a matured, skilled individual, but I think I got through the worst of him.”

‘In advance,’ Sirius noted. And ‘an entire wizard’. If he understood Skipps correctly, then Vaqqu had not only planned the raid, but he had arranged for the young dementor to take the soul of the former Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Sirius wondered what counted as ‘young’ in a species with individuals over five centuries old.

His gaze fell on the tray in front of him. The food, the plate, the utensils, everything in here belonged to that department of the Ministry. Even the dementors.

“Vaqqu wanted some scores set even, didn’t he?” And it had to be something older than Crouch smuggling his own son out of here. Vaqqu had let them leave back then because, as he had said a week before, they had been powerless against him. Sirius had one guess. “This has to do with the North Corner, right? The area where no dementor would go.”

“At least, not of their own will,” Skipps replied. “Barty Crouch was fond of, as he put it, regulating our numbers. The hatred was mutual,” the dementor explained, still in the kissed wizard’s voice. “Small victory. If you take a piece of advice from a dementor less than one-third your age: do not accept any excuses and explanations when you or your own kin have been hurt. True remorse is so poignant, you don’t have to be afraid to miss it. Don’t settle for less.”

“Did Vaqqu ask you to tell me this wisdom of his?” Sirius asked suspiciously. He was about to get his down to his breakfast, but he couldn’t talk to Skipps with his mouth full while Skipps was just developing voice.

“It came up that you’ll need it,” the young dementor replied. His head jerked up. “We didn’t guess it would be this soon!”

With that, Skipps rallied out of the cell at a speed that would have put a racing-broom to shame. Just as the door was hastily locked from the outside, something with a silvery glow appeared in the far corner. A moment later, it grew to a fully recognizable ball of solid light, as if it had pressed through a tiny crack in the rigid old wall. When it got entirely out of the obstacle, it was shining silver-white, wild and glorious. It started circling around Sirius Black, warming up the air, giving him an opportunity to think freely for himself.

The wizard examined the patronus as it took a feline form, and he tried to remember who it belonged to. When the cat-formed energy settled in front of him, he spotted the tufts of brightness-fur on the tips of both ears. He had always found those amusing on the patronus of a completely bald wizard.

“Kingsley?” he whispered.

“Sirius, old friend. Stay strong, we’re coming.”

Suddenly, the abandoned animagus felt the true meaning of having been forgotten in Azkaban by the entire Order of the Phoenix. He had never been this much alone – the weight of being betrayed by those he’d fought side by side for years only dawned on him when he heard the apology in Kingsley Shacklebolt’s tone.

With shaky hands, he placed the breakfast tray on the Prophet to hide it. Neither Vaqqu nor the Order had ever played with open cards, so Sirius shouldn’t, either. He wondered what Daire would do in his place. James Potter, for one, would perhaps greet the incoming rescue squad with his antlers lowered, battle-ready, bellowing that he needed no rescue from the unworthy.

But James had always been proud. Right now, Sirius was longing for company.

“What... What year is it, Kingsley?” He was careful not to hint that he was relatively sane. He had to convince the aurors that he knew about nothing, had had no joy in his life for twelve years, and hadn’t been reading the Prophet this morning. Or else he would get Skipps into huge trouble. As Sirius remembered, he had sat in the corner during the investigation after the Crouch night, mumbling ‘I’m innocent’ (not that the visitors had bothered to listen) and had even drooled a little, for completeness’ sake. So now he could not greet Shacklebolt as if they’d met in Diagon Alley. If he sounded accusing, well, he had every reason to.

“1993. Third of October. Elphias has just told me you’d be put under house arrest. The Wizengamot announced a hunt for Pettigrew, we have fifteen thousand galleons on his head right now, but with private donations, it will be higher. No way will he hide.”

“Traitor...” Sirius whispered.

“We know. Hold on, you’ll be out of Azkaban within an hour. I won’t let those monsters harm you any further. You’re not alone.”

Sirius just nodded; his unkept long hair covered his bitter face. This was the first time he had talked to a wizard, apart from his brief Hogwarts visit during that unfortunate full moon, and he had to lie to an auror he had once considered a friend. But Kingsley had bought it, because the lie was much more plausible than the truth would have been.

The silver light-lynx fell silent. Presumably the wizard who conjured it was no longer focused on keeping up the dialogue, but was skilled enough that the patronus didn’t vanish.

From the other side of the door, he soon heard footsteps, something horribly out of place in a prison where the staff was airborne. He could hear the distinctive, rattling breaths of two dementors. One had to be Commander Chesire. The other was either Vaqqu or Mixie. He couldn’t tell because of the bright patronus blocking his line of vision.

He tried to stand up, but his legs were shaking.

He heard the same voice, but not from the patronus, but from the wizard himself. Shacklebolt made a dark remark about the terrible conditions as he entered the corridor. The one who reassured him “It was worse before my time,” had to be Cornelius Fudge.

Sirius looked up, shivering. Noone living had ever entered the cell, and he didn’t want to give away that he had been left out. Also, he had been mumbling quietly during the last visit, the day after the two kisses. He knew better than to wave happily now.

Kingsley took off his own coat, and wrapped the shaking, unkempt, and extremely skinny Sirius with it. Then he helped the wizard up, warily looking at him, watching for signs of the expectable insanity in his eyes.  

“What happened?” the prisoner whispered.

The Minister of Magic answered. “I regret to say, we made a huge mistake.”

Sirius dryly replied, “I regret to say, I agree.”

The lynx of brightness was circling around all three of them, although, as Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge enjoyed full immunity against any and all dementors. Sirius was holding on to Shacklebolt, a warm, living body after twelve years in the company of non-beings. He let the other wizard carry him down to the central office, into the fireplace with no floo powder next to it, then through the Wizengamot area of the Ministry of Magic. He listened carefully as he was told the details of his house arrest, and loudly protested when a group of house-elves attempted to clean him up. He proudly stated he was an innocent, not an invalid.  “Mind you, even like this I’m sure I look better than Severus Snape!”  Some bystanders giggled with relief: they heard  his first joke, only two hours after his rescue. They called it a good sign.

His apparent lethargy returned, however, when he had to sit still while a barber attempted to restore his shaggy hair to its former glory. Then he asked for ‘whatever muggle food’ as he had more than enough of Ministry cuisine.

After an abundant lunch, two aurors accompanied him home, to the dusty, intimidating  house at 12, Grimmauld place. He’d been informed that the building had an additional charm keeping everyone either in or out, repelling any attempts of leaving either through the front door or apparition. As Elphias Doge repeatedly explained to him, this was a necessary precaution and the only viable alternative to leaving him in Azkaban until his second trial. Sirius didn’t comment on this statement, only corrected the trial number.

He’d been told he could accept visitors through the monitored floo network, and that a healer from St. Mungo’s would also like to see him, and admitted that he looked much better than they all had expected. Strong spirit, they said.

Sirius took the stairs to the family house’s door, then rested his hand on the ice-cold handle.

“My father has put many spells on it to keep the uninvited away.”

“Are you sure you’ll manage from here?” Elphias Doge asked. Clearly, he had experienced the mentioned charms first-hand before they secured the building from the outside, and now he expected to be finally allowed in.

“If I get lost from my own home’s entrance, you can lock me up in St. Mungo’s. Or in my original cell.” With that, he opened the door that had not moved since the death of his father and the disappearance of Regulus. Thick dust greeted him, and a strange presence that felt somewhat similar to the bad impressions his family had caused, yet so different: a lot more welcoming.

He closed the door behind himself. After all the tiring attention, after all the wizards trying to make up for twelve years of neglect and abandonment, the familiar cold on his skin was refreshing. For the first time in his life, he approved of everyone present in this building.

“Cheers, Daire!” He smiled. “Didn’t I tell you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ends Snapshots from Azkaban. Check out Snapshots from Grimmauld Place if you want to know what happens next!   
> And now that we’re saying goodbye to the dementors, would you please tell me who did you like most?


End file.
